Catching a Fallen Starr

by Adriana Law

  Summer grabs my arm in desperation. “Don’t tell. It was the only way to meet my quota. I’ll say I lost the necklace. Ricin will never know. The cash is more than I would have made off TWO guys. He has to believe that’s how I got the bills. That I had a profitable night.”

  “Calm down,” I tell Summer. “I’m not going to say anything.”

  Sawyer Bentley.

  What are you up to?

  ***

  Mattie learns quickly what being Ricin’s favorite gets her. The top is not always pretty. I feel sorry for her. I can see the hurt in her eyes over the realization that being special is not always better. Being special doesn’t always mean you’ll be treated any better. Being special just means you are focused on, watched, things expected of you that might not be expected of those who aren’t…special.

  Sometimes they blindfold us for “specials”. Rich Johns that don’t want us knowing who they are to avoid being blackmailed in the future. Important men like senators, company CEO’s, sometimes a high-up cop that has turned dirty. Getting chosen for a secret party with these men, it’s not ever fun. It’s very degrading and scary not being able to see what’s going on around you. “Turn around,” Ricin tells Mattie. She obeys. He drapes a folded bright purple scarf over her eyes and ties a knot in the back. The purple compliments Mattie gorgeous skin tone and even makes me want to unwrap her to see what lies beneath.

  Then it’s my turn to be blindfolded. My scarf is turquoise.

  Ricin ties our hands low behind our backs so there is no chance of us removing the blindfolds. “My two best girls,” Ricin praises. “They’re going to have a bidding war over you two. I’ll make a killing tonight.” A few minutes later he is helping us out of the car. The guys with him aid in getting us safely inside.

  We smell good and look good. Polished. Fluffed. Dressed up like fake porcelain dolls a man will have to pay top dollar to own for an hour. We’re not the only girls selected to go. There will be others, each pimps choosing only his best: cream of the crop.

  I almost trip going up the front steps of the home, my hands naturally wanting to come up to protect my face. With my hands tied I am at the mercy of the men Ricin employed to watch over us.

  There’s music. Not my kind. The smell of cigars and expensive aftershave. I can even catch a whiff of the imported liquor whenever it passes by on a tray. The floors are marble; I can tell by the click of my five inch heels over them. We are lead to a room full of male laughter. Some languages spoken are not English.

  Mattie and I are taken deeper into the home, away from the heart of the party, up a long flight of stairs to a more private setting. I know this because there is suddenly a handful of male voices. Five at the most.

  We were lead into a room. Halted. The double doors behind us shut. I hear the click of a lock and know Mattie and I can no longer run. Introductions are made. There’s movement in between Mattie and me, Ricin proudly shaking hands I assume.

  “What did you bring us tonight,” one of the men inquires. His voice is kind of high for my taste, too much of a boyish quality to hold such power. His soft knuckles graze my cheek all the way down to the tip of my chin. Again too soft to belong to a man that knows what hard work is. I assume he doesn’t. “This one is extraordinary,” he says, cigar smoke being expelled into my face. “Breathtaking. But can she fuck?”

  “Like a whore.” Ricin chuckles.

  Dickwad!

  Then the man is brushing past me, going in Mattie’s direction. “I don’t know though. Decisions. Decisions. I have always had a fondness for niggers. They are usually more attentive,” he explains.

  My entire body snaps to alert status at his stupidity. I know if there is one thing Mattie despises, it’s that solitary word. If you want to piss her off. Keep using it. Ricin needs to warn these buffoons to use better language around his property. Instead, Ricin agrees, “She is special.”

  “Love the short blond nap. Although, it almost makes her look like a dike.” Find a flaw in the product: diminish its value. The man sighs. “Yes. I guess I can see her potential. Still, I’m uneasy offering her up without testing the quality first.” There is a pause. I hear Mattie whine, and I am certain the man is making her extremely uncomfortable. “Do you—would you mind if I dip a little into the product first,” is directed at Ricin.

  “I have confidence you’ll be more than satisfied.”

  Suddenly I sense that Ricin has left Mattie and me standing there alone with the men. “White or dark meat?” the soft-spoken man ponders his decision out-loud.

  I sense him circling us. Thinking. Deciding which one of us he will choose.

  I feel his fingertips grazing here and there. I imagine him licking his lips. A deep chill runs through my body, one that goes deep, deep into the marrow of my bones and stays there. A chill that can’t be shaken.

  I try to make out shapes or at least light but it’s impossible.

  I’m at their mercy. These evil men without consciences.

  “Have the nigger suck your cock,” a man in the room suggests.

  “Hm. Decisions. Decisions.” I already hate this man with his decisions. I silently pray he picks me. I know enough about these men to know the racist words directed at Mattie will only fuel the others. Possibly taking this whole ‘dip the product’ too dangerous levels. My gut tells me they’re nothing but ugly and mean with black, hollow hearts. If you cut them open, I bet that is exactly what you would see.

  “Dark I think,” the man finally says.

  Oh Mattie.

  There is a shuffle. Mattie’s whimpers come from lower than where I am. She’s kneeling. The bastards are making her kneel, blindfolded with her hands tied behind her back. I don’t like this. Fuck not being able to see. “Open your mouth so I can feed you my cock, nigger girl.”

  Mattie coughs and gags.

  There’s movement: the other men aiding the dickwad. Male voices are surrounding her. The guy makes sounds of pleasure. Groaning. Soft clipped breaths like the mating call of a Weasel. Mattie gurgles as her throat attempts to expand. I know they don’t care enough to be gentle. To them: We are not human. We are only here to serve. Sounds of pain and distress come from Mattie’s direction.

  “Leave her alone,” I warn, bordering hysterical.

  “Shut that bitch up!” the man hisses.

  The back of a hand comes down across my face. Strong like a flat, solid paddle. Then another. I’m knocked off balance. Knocked sideways, but hands keep me upright. Straightening, I tense, expecting another hit but only getting a runny nose from the sting the last blow left behind. My cheek is on fire, my jaw aches and my ear rings, but I can’t stop. You get used to the hits and spend less time in shock that it happened. “We didn’t come here for your pleasure,” I scream out to the man. “You haven’t paid!” I reason. It’s stupid, but it’s all I’ve got. “Get away from her. Leave her alone. Don’t touch her!!”

  Hands are on me, keeping me from charging. I’m held back. Restrained. My heart races. Mattie never complains. She is good at checking out, but she is hurt. I want to protect her. I need to protect her. She’s all I have left. Her. And this shit life. “DON’T TOUCH HER!”

  “A little too late for that,” he laughs.

  The four other men chant for the man to rough the black bitch up!

  I feel Mattie’s pain in every cell my body. We are kindred spirits: the same.

  I hear heavy footfall. The soles of shoes squeak as if being pushed over the floor; leverage, skidding backward. Scuff marks. Mattie sobbing and pleading for the men to stop.

  Fist slap flesh.

  Over and over.

  “Where are you, you son-of-a-bitch,” I scream blindly at Ricin. “Protect her! Make them stop!” I know he is here. Slinking somewhere in the background. “Stop it! They’re going to kill her!”

  Something is crammed into my mouth. “Be thankful it’s just a sock,” a male whispers deep into the canal of my ear. I jerk and twist against the men’s ho
ld.

  But then everything goes silent, except for the sound of his zipper.

  I don’t hear Mattie.

  I don’t hear anything.

  Not her ragged breaths.

  Not her whimpers of pain.

  The horrific unsettling sound of NOTHING.

  Oh God, they killed her!!! I go still.

  My chest rises and falls in quick breaths.

  I want to go to her, check on her, but they won’t let me.

  I imagine Mattie’s crumbled abused body lying on the floor, and no one going to her or caring that she is dead. Oh Mattie, why didn’t we run? Why didn’t we find a way to get free from the Devil’s clutches? Why did we stay? Questions I will continue to ask myself.

  Why did we stay? Why did we stay? Why did we stay? Why did we stay? Why did we stay? Why did we stay? Why did we stay?

  I drop my head, defeated.

  They’ll pay. One day they will all pay.

  “Open the doors and let the others in,” the Weasel orders. Strangely, his words comfort me. I lift my head and listen closely. “Get this one back on her feet and clean her up. She’s a mess. No one will pay for her looking like that.” I hear movement. I hear movement!! Mattie being helped up.

  The double doors swing open on their squeaky hinges.

  “All right Gentlemen, get your cash ready. Secure your whore before she's worn out.”

  They parade men in to bid: to fill our schedules for the rest of the evening, until the early morning hours. Numbers are rapidly thrown out, the highest bidder getting us first.

  I angle my head, tuning into one voice in particular. His deep voice is somehow pleasing to my ears and I find myself silently rooting for him. If I had to choose, I choose him.

  No matter how high the bid goes, without hesitation, this man goes higher. Determined to win my first hour. Exhausted from trying to win against him, the other men fold and are removed from the room until the next turn.

  “Congratulations, Mr. Wood. Well done,” Weasel says. “She’s a beauty.”

  Mr. Wood? As in a guy’s stiff pecker? If I wasn’t biting down on a sock I might laugh. My body craves the comical release. I wonder if any of these stupid asses get the name might be a direct slap at their intelligence. A mockery. What, am I wood? I don’t think they’ve considered it. They seem to admire this bidder: knowing him and all his successful endeavors before tonight.

  “I can see that,” is all Mr. Wood says to the beauty remark made by weasel. I feel the guy’s overwhelming energy brush against me. My breaths pick up noisily around the sock. He gently removes the sock. A hand cups my face, a thumb gliding over my bottom lip. He doesn’t squeeze my face: instead he cradles it.

  He is admiring his purchase.

  And he takes his time doing it.

  There is something about him. Suddenly it hits me: who I am thinking of. I lean into the hand rather than away from it. I must be whacked in the head to ever think such a thing. It can’t be. Not him. It makes no logical sense. “You are one fine piece of ass, that’s for sure,” he murmurs, his breath warm on my lips.

  “I happen to prefer tight ass,” Weasel shares.

  “I’m sure you do,” Mr. Wood returns dryly. “But this ass is all mine for the next hour.” To prove his point his arm encircles me, yanking me against his hard chest, his hand going to my ass. The hand feels over my ass suggestively. The sound of a smack reverberates through the room. I gasp. Shocked. The men in the room laugh.

  I take a breath, a breath I hope goes unnoticed. Yes. It was a very stupid idea. You can’t tell anything about a man by his voice. Mr. Wood holds me tightly to him. Stop daydreaming about freedom, Starr. No one cares where you are? I bet you haven’t even been missed—an inconvenient bump that practically goes unnoticed. A sob comes from deep within my chest. I can’t contain it. My body trembles at the idea of being a show pony on display. The men’s laughter at my expense. It’s embarrassing. Humiliating. The lowest of lows.

  The guy is dangerously close now, and I hold my breath, feeling his in my ear as he shushes me, whispering in my ear, “I promise. You’re in good hands.” He then seizes my arm roughly and drags me from the room, down a long hallway, to one of the bedrooms offered up tonight. His strides are crazy, and the blindfold makes it difficult to keep up. I stumble, snapping, “Can you please slow down!?”

  “We don’t have long,” is his response. The quietness of his voice, oddly, soothes my nerves. He leads me into a room, and I hear the door shut. “Turn,” he says and I obey, giving him my back.

  Fingers work at untying the knot in the blindfold. I can feel the tremble of those fingers against my skull and my brows slam together in confusion. Why would this man tremble? He purchased me. For the next hour…he owns me.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Past

  The long trip from Los Angeles to Colorado:

  “All women love to fuck with a guy’s head. I don’t care who she is. What she claims. It is in her. The ability to be the biggest bitch you have ever met. They are all liars. You want to get somewhere in this life...keep a woman out of it,” my father’s words. I had heard it my entire life. “Bitches, bitches, conniving backstabbing bitches! They’ll rob you blind and then screw your best friend the first chance they get.”

  As far as I knew my father never had a best friend.

  He did, however, have a string of pissed off women:

  The first woman was his mother: the ultimate whore that started it all.

  “History repeats,” another one of my father's sayings.

  The second woman—my half-brother’s mother (a brother from another mother) –was never considered a wife. She became whore number two and split with the product of that short-lived sexual encounter (Sterling) only to drop him off on our doorstep years later with no return address provided.

  The third woman—my mother—was honored with becoming Samuel Bentley’s first wife. She also split—might’ve had something to do with a best friend. I wasn’t sure, not about anything. All I knew was my mother didn’t take me with her and that hurt. My uncle (Colton Bentley’s father) once made the mistake of mentioning something about a long, drawn out court battle and how my mother was proven unfit. It was a decent thought: she fought for her child. Me. But my father adamantly insisted it was all a big fat lie whenever I asked him about it. I never asked again.

  Woman three became wife two, which didn’t last either making way for wife number three.

  Over the years it was predominately just us males: my father¸ Sterling and me.

  Women came and went as often as the cleaning lady. Sometimes I wondered if my father interviewed for both positions at the same time. If it hadn’t been for my brother my life would have been much different. I probably would’ve committed suicide early on. Sterling took the brunt of my father's hatred like a champ. I hated myself because of it. I remember hiding in a closet: nothing more than a gangly little pussy with my arms wrapped around my knees while I cried. I’d never told anyone, not even my brother, that I pissed all over myself once when it got real bad. I remember thinking—sitting there soaked in my own urine—that my father was going to kill Sterling, and then there would be no one left but me. I wanted Sterling to remain around for that reason: so I wouldn’t have to act as the punching bag. That was crappy, wasn’t it? Wanting someone around for the sole purpose of being your human shield. Don’t get me wrong. I loved my brother. I owed him a lot. I owed him more than I could probably ever repay.

  My brother and I couldn’t have been more opposite.

  Our taste in women proved how huge that difference was.

  I tended to lean toward delicate, sweet girls I could baby and coddle and be the big tough guy with. Sterling looked for someone to bully him. I guess he grew comfortable with being domineered and over-powered in every way possible. When we were younger, my brother had an interest in snakes. He was bad about putting baby snakes in his pockets and sneaking them inside. Our father would be furious claimin
g it just proved how much of a freak he really was.

  I liked things I could pet without running the risk of being bitten.

  That knowledge, how different my brother and me were, was shot all to hell when Sterling introduced Victoria to the family. Victoria was delicate and sweet. She didn’t seem like the kind of girl that would fuck with your head and screw your best friend. She completed my brother in all the best ways; smoothing out his rough edges and making him a better man. My father hated her immediately. Victoria blew his whole history repeats out of the damn water and made Sterling happy. My father hated her for that too.

  I had a ton of built up guilt from our childhood. When my brother asked for me to give his ex a ride—cross many miserable miles—to support him during one of his AA meetings I said yes.

  I hated Starr immediately. She wasn’t delicate or sweet. She was a foul-mouthed, tattooed bad girl with a bank full of pent-up anger and resentment. Not my type. Not at all.

  I regretted agreeing to drive her; the entire experience took me back years: to that gangly little pussy shivering in the closet pissing on himself:

  “Slow down!”

  Gears made a grinding sound. I was usually a competent driver, but it was impossible to focus with someone screaming in my ear. I took a deep breath and fought the urge to strangle her. “Starr,” I started very calmly, “Grandma would have no problem passing us...I’m going that damn slow. Trust me. I’ve got this.”

  “Well, go slower,” she snarled. The sound was incredibly sexy and I mentally kicked myself for thinking anything about her was remotely appealing.

  The windshield wipers swished at full speed struggling to keep up with the rain hammering the windshield. Squeak, squeak...the wipers drug over glass. Squeak, squeak, squeak…! Reminder to self: replace wiper pads.